Sometimes I struggle to talk about what I’ve written. As if these words are so strong they cannot be spoken. They can only be read, like a whisper between us.

Writing corrals my thoughts into succinct sentences. When I write, I communicate what I really mean instead of what I really think. I think three sentences. I write three sentences. I edit them down to one. Chef’s kiss.

It’s all in the Beat.

Justin would know that if he read it. —“It’s on my list of things to do,” he tells me, “to catch up on the Cha Cha Beat.” He is being sincere. Justin always does what he says he will. But that doesn’t mean he will do it today. Or even this week.

If Justin wants to know how I processed the recent bad news that his mother needs a new place to live, he can read the Blog Beat about it. (Which is for the best because the less I say impulsively the better. It’s a delicate situation, a man and his mom.)

I don’t mind that Justin doesn’t read my Beat.—A forty-year-old man is not exactly my target audience. Do I have a target audience? I’m just talking to myself. My peace has been written. My Beat, released and received, even if only just by me.

Eventually, I know Justin will tap “chachabeat.com” into his browser and start from the top. What will be the first Beat he reads? Has it even been written yet?

Look how many I’ve written so far! I don’t know how I’m doing this. But also I do. This is fun, though terrifying. But it’s nice not to be bored, so I welcome the terror for a change.

***

Of course I don’t mind if Justin reads the Cha Cha Beat! Justin is my love, my champion, my partner and best friend. I would never hide my art from him. That would be weird.

I also don’t mind if you read the Beat!—Please, come on in! Take a look around. I hope you enjoy your stay. You are always welcome. You, the miracle that is reading this, because somehow you found me in the dark.

I am writing in the dark because I am scared of people reading my writing asking for attention.

Is that true, Cha Cha? You’re ashamed of saying, ‘Look at what I’ve created!’? As if it weren’t worthy of their scrolling eyeballs.

Oh, it’s worthy alright. A reader recently commented that this Back Beat reminded him of Hemingway. Hemingway! I mean, I didn’t read a lot of in high school because I was closetedly cross-eyed. But I’m pretty sure this review is about as good as it gets when you’re a writer. Distinct in his prose, Hemingway was brilliant (…and maybe a little crosseyed too).

So what’s the problem? Ug. Don’t tell me. The Judgmentalsteins.

Yes. But not just them! Like, my entire family and their friends who know used to know me. As if the Cha Cha Beat were a Declaration of Independence, a mission statement for living my own life.—That’s exactly what it is. But I come in peace.

I come in peace, but I fear the Judgmentalsteins will not.—They’ll think I am complaining on the internet. And that I am blaming them for everything. They’ll say that I’m going to embarrass myself. They’ll hate that I’m still calling them the Judgmentalsteins. They’ll shame me for holding a grudge. They’ll say, Oh Chach, don’t be so sensitive.

Of course I am sensitive! I am a writer after all. After all those years of you trying to convince me I that I wasn’t, I still am.—I am not writing to upset you. I am writing because I am a writer, and I know no other way to deal with my sh*t.

“Ok. Well, do you really want to share everything like that? Once it’s on the internet it’s OUT THERE.” The Judgmentalsteins say, changing their tactic because they realize that I have all the power. They assume the worst of people reading my writing. I’ll lose my job, become unhirable. Or that I’ll shame them in public. They raised me better. Thou shall honor thy father and mother.

“I am honoring you,” I say back, trying a new tactic of my own. “Congratulations!” I say. “You have raised a beautiful and intelligent daughter who, if I do say so myself, is a f*cking great writer. You two must be so proud.”

They sit stunned in this mash up. They won’t be the first ones to get angry.

“So you’re not gonna stop?” they say.

“If you love me, you won’t want me to stop,” I say. They think about this for a while. The juxtaposition between insisting that they love me and accepting me as I am.

They think they are protecting me. But really they are protecting themselves.—I assume their bodies as they tap on a fresh Beat: Anxious about what they might read, dismissive of what they have.—This is not fun, I say, and eject myself out of that situation.

I come in peace, I say again, bringing my mind back to the Beat. The Judgmentalsteins are gone and I am alone, still dancing in the dark.